


With A Broken Heart And A Ticket Home

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, St. Patrick's Day, Stuck In An Airport AU, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:42:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1366075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“So, Louis,” Harry turns to him properly now, posture completely at ease, “You seem like an agreeable fellow. How do you propose we entertain ourselves until such a time as we can get on a plane, and get the fuck out of Knock?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Harry and Louis' flight is delayed, and they're the only ones to <i>not</i> get the memo. Cue a night spent in a tiny Irish airport with only each other for company, and the hand of Fate delivering a swift smack on the wrist and a demand to try again.</p><p> </p><p>  <b>Twoshot.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Knock

_I took a stroll down the old Long Walk..._

 

✈ ♣ ✈ ♣ ✈

 

Louis really should have clocked that something was wrong when he first arrived; he had been the only person to alight the coach when they finally drew up to Knock Airport, but it had been without trepidation that he had saluted the grumpy driver and watched the words _Bus Éireann_ fade into the drizzly night air as it drove off. Hauling his rucksack more securely over his shoulder, Louis had turned on his heel and made his way across the wet asphalt and down to the doors of the tiny building.

Well, it isn’t really a tiny building. It covers about the same amount of space as the average football pitch, but as far as airports go, Ireland West Airport Knock is miniscule; one runway, two cafés, nine check-in desks and, currently, one very unhappy Louis Tomlinson.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” the middle-aged woman behind the service desk repeats for the fourth time, “But the weather over Manchester at the moment is just not safe for flights to land.”

“But shouldn’t I have got, I don’t know, an email or something?” Louis insists, pulling out his phone as it emanates a cheerful _ding!_ She raises her eyebrows at him as he opens the message and skims its contents.

 _Dear Mr. Tomlinson… Sorry to inform… Bad weather… Rescheduled for the morning of the 11_ _ th_ _of March… Cover costs of accommodation… Voucher… Sorry for inconvenience…_

Louis sighs.

“If it’s any consolation, sir, you’re not the only one who didn’t receive the message,” she adds placatingly. “There was another young gentleman here half an hour ago trying to check in.”

“It isn’t, but thanks,” Louis says with a wry smile, looking round; he is the only person in the airport as far as he can see, most of the staff having gone home and all of the other passengers currently lined up in the Departures Hall. He offers the woman a hollow thanks, and hoists his bag over his shoulder again.

There are no more buses back to Galway at this time of night, and Knock is conveniently situated in the middle of bloody nowhere for some reason Louis is sure an Irish person could probably explain and even make sound reasonable. Resigned to the fact that he is spending the night in the lonely airport, Louis begins exploring.

It doesn’t take long to cover the bottom level. He can’t get past the unmanned security desk, which leaves the empty car hire desks, the gift shop and café (both long since shut) and the Arrivals door. It’s eerie, especially, once the sound of voices from the Departures Hall fades away as the last passengers begin to board their flight. Doubling back into the main atrium, he notices that the service desk has the shutter pulled down, and the light behind it is now off; he suspects that he is the only person left in the airport, save for maybe a few stragglers and baggage handlers. It’s oddly thrilling.

He makes his way up the stairs that apparently lead to another café and the observation deck, whistling ‘The Galway Girl’ slightly off-key as he does. It’s a surprise when a second whistler joins in to fill in the instrumental parts of the final chorus, and for a split second he entertains the notion that some strange Trad Ghost haunts Knock Airport, before reasoning that a) Knock Airport is the last place anyone would want to spend the foreseeable eternity and b) it’s more likely that the whistler is the hoodie-clad, male figure perched on one of the high stools facing out of the window toward the runway.

Louis makes his way over to him, figuring that if he’s going to sleep at all tonight, he’d do so much more easily in the presence of a new acquaintance than a total stranger. His notions are, however, dashed when the guy uses his gangly legs to spin his stool round to face Louis, and Louis, for his part is assaulted by a pair of bright, green eyes and curly brown hair he would mind twining his fingers into.

The young stranger regards him for a moment, sipping from the styrofoam cup of tea he’s cradling with both hands.

“You’ve got the eyes right,” he says slowly, the deepness of his voice taking Louis by surprise. For a wild moment, Louis wonders how he knows that Louis is entranced by the colour of his eyes, before he adds, “But your hair’s all wrong. ‘Sposed to be black, isn’t it? In the song?”

Louis grins, running a hand through his light brown fringe.

“Pity. I have a flat in downtown Galway and everything,” Louis extends a hand as the stranger laughs and reaches out to shake it. His hand is warm and almost covers Louis’ entirely. “I’m Louis.”

“Harry. I take it you’re—“

“— Supposed to be en route to Manchester and very much not, yes,” Louis finishes, and Harry nods sympathetically, as though he isn’t in the exact same predicament.

“I don’t know about you, but I plan on writing Ryanair a very strongly-worded letter about all this,”

Louis considers this for a moment.

“Was that a line from _Titanic_?”

Harry stares at him for a moment. He’s sort of adorable. Louis wants to lick him.

“Louis, you and I are going to get along famously.”

“Suits me,” Louis hops up onto the stool next to Harry’s, mentally kicking himself for sounding far too keen on the prospect. Tearing his eyes from Harry’s profile, he locates the telltale line of lights made by the windows of the last plane out of Knock, which is currently taxi-ing down the runway. “Where’s it going?”

“Stansted, I think. Don’t really envy them. I’ve spent the night at Stansted before and it’s not half as comfy as this.”

“Really?” Louis raises his eyebrows to cover his amusement.

“Yeah, it’s like a campsite,” Harry muses, still looking out of the window. “Noisy, people fighting to the death over seats to sleep on, security guards moving you along just as you drift off… Terrible service. Two stars, at most.”

“What do you give Knock?”

“Well, the location’s a bit shit but at least it’s peaceful, and pretty empty,” Louis catches a sideways glance in his direction, “The company’s okay, too, so far. Four stars.”

“Aw. Thanks, Harold.”

“Harry. Just Harry. Keep that up and I’ll knock it down to three.”

“Just Harry,” Louis repeats in a terrible Scottish accent that has Harry snorting into his tea.

“You did _not_ just Hagrid-voice me.”

“Am I the first?”

“Not by a long way,” Harry sighs as the dull roar of engines filters through the glass, and the plane on the runway inches forward. The two of them fall silent, watching as the lights of the plane pick up speed, hurtling down the runway, taking to the sky at the last second at terrific speed. They don’t speak again until the night is silent again, and the lights have disappeared into the cloud cover.

“So, Louis,” Harry turns to him properly now, posture completely at ease, “You seem like an agreeable fellow. How do you propose we entertain ourselves until such a time as we can get on a plane, and get the fuck out of Knock?”

Louis waggles his eyebrows and Harry swats him, though he doesn’t look at all upset by the implied proposition.

“Not like _that_ , you pervert,” Harry takes another sip of tea. Ah, well. It had been worth a try.

“Well, I was originally planning on finding a bench to kip on, but on closer inspection they seem to be built purely to make sleeping impossible.”

“Inconsiderate.”

“I know.”

“I guess that just leaves tomfoolery and japes then,” Harry replies, a mischievous glint in his eye, and Louis kind of wants to die because those were honestly words that just came out of his mouth. Who _is_ he?

“Yes, it does. But before we descend into ‘tomfoolery and japes’, I want tea.”

“Fair enough.”

A few minutes later, they’re standing the other end of the observation deck, staring down a line of vending machines… Hot drinks, crisps, fizzy drinks, even a Ben and Jerry’s. As it is, Louis makes a beeline for the one with a cappuccino lit up across the front. He inspects the buttons with a groan; some smartarse on the airport staff has taped over the labels, and rewritten them in Irish Gaelic.

“So, how do you work this thing?” he turns to Harry, who shrugs.

“Dunno. I bought mine from the café before it shut.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…”

“Come on, Lou,” Louis tries very hard not to smile at the sudden nickname as Harry squints at the handwritten labels. “ _Tae_ and _Caife_. Surely you can…”

“Ah, but Harry, you forget, we’re in _Ireland_ ,” Louis interrupts sagely, “And it is the mission of Irish people to make English people as confused as possible, for laughing purposes. It’s probably a clever ruse.”

Harry frowns.

“I’ve never found that.”

“Well of course you haven’t,” Louis waves a noncommittal hand, studying two buttons reading _Bainne, Uachtar_ and _Siúcra._ “You’ve got that congenial, cute dimples-and-curls thing going for you. Nobody wants to see you do sad puppy eyes, Harold.”

“ _Harry._ And you think I’m cute?” he can hear the little smile in Harry’s voice, and sees it when he straightens up again. Louis feels his cheeks heat up, but there’s a pleasurable squirm in his belly at Harry’s reaction nonetheless.

“I’d think you were cuter if you could read Gaelic.”

“I don’t _need_ to read Gaelic,” Harry throws his hands up in frustration, though Louis catches the faint pink tinge of a blush on his cheeks. “It’s right there!”

Obstinately, Louis hits the _Caife_ button, before pressing the _Bainne_ button twice.

He gets coffee. Very, very milky coffee.

“Don’t say it,” he hisses at Harry, who is wearing an expression like a cat who got the cream. Or _uachtar_ , as it were.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Well. Don’t. I’m saying it pre-emptively.”

“Long words for half ten at night,” Harry counters and yawns to punctuate the point. Louis thrusts the cup at him with his best shit-eating grin.

“Drink up. We’re going to need a lot of caffeine if we’re going to stay up all night.”

Harry pushes it back.

“No thanks. I prefer mine _le siúcra i sé_.”

Louis stares at him as he pushes the buttons with a kind of practised nonchalance. He doesn’t know what a perfect Irish accent sounds like, but he’s willing to put money on the fact that Harry can speak Irish Gaelic with one. When he straightens, Harry makes a beeline for the corner they’ve claimed with their bags, blowing softly across the surface of his perfect macchiato.

“Didn’t you say you’d think I was cuter if I could read Gaelic?” he throws over his shoulder, and it isn’t until he’s muttered a string of curses under his breath that Louis ambles across the shiny floor to join him.

 

✈ ♣ ✈ ♣ ✈

 

“So are you heading out, or heading home?”

It’s just past midnight, and they’ve been comfortably reclining on their bags as they sip their coffees (Harry with satisfaction, Louis with a grim determination) and chat idly about anything from football to fairy tales, meanwhile charging their phones with the nearby powerpoint.

“Home. Been staying with my friend Niall for a few days in Mullingar. Little town in County Westmeath,” Harry replies, “We were pen friends in primary school and just sort of kept in touch.”

“Cute,” Louis downs the last drops of his coffee with a grimace. “But… Westmeath. Wouldn’t that make Mullingar considerably closer to Dublin than here?”

“Yes, but flights are considerably _cheaper_ from here than from Dublin, and my poor student budget is already suffering,” Harry shrugs, “Probably got to do with St. Paddy’s next weekend.”

“Probably. I, for one, will be glad to be nowhere near Dublin next weekend. Gets pretty wild,” Louis adds, shuddering at the memory of last year. He’s fairly certain that his bartender résumé deserves to be printed in gold leaf after working a double shift in Temple Bar on March 17th, not that he plans on complaining about that particular incident to Harry. Zayn has already taken to throwing things at him if he breathes another word about it.

“So I’ve heard. Anyway, what about you?”

“Home, I suppose. Visiting my mum in Donny for a few days,” Louis feels himself smile a little bit, “Haven’t seen my family in a while, so it’ll be nice.”

“Siblings?”

“Six. I’m the eldest.”

“ _Christ_ ,” Harry surveys him with wide eyes, seemingly coming to a sudden realisation. “You’re Liesel Von Trapp.”

Louis bursts out laughing because of _all_ the things normal people would say in response to a family as big as Louis’, this boy goes straight for the Rodgers and Hammerstein. And sadly enough, he thinks he falls just a little bit in love because of it. Collecting himself and suddenly paranoid that the next words out of his mouth will give him away, he assumes an air of haughtiness, because that’s what Louis Tomlinson does when he has a crush, damn it.

“I think I have better taste in men than Liesel Von Trapp, thank you,”

From there it escalates. Harry starts singing ‘I Am Sixteen, Going On Seventeen’ at Louis. Louis retaliates by standing on the nearest bench and joining in. Harry keeps up, taking Louis’ hand and then, before either of them know it, they’re re-enacting the glasshouse scene in all its glory with the ugly, yellow wood benches of Knock Airport. And when Louis teeters and overbalances, arms pinwheeling as his singing turns into a shriek, Harry catches him with a huffed laugh.

There’s a moment when they’re too close, Harry blinking down at Louis with the ghost of a laugh still painted across his face, Louis clutching at the front of Harry’s shirt and breathing heavily, and it would only take a tiny movement for Louis to—

“You know,” Harry suddenly says, “If we’re going with age differences, you’re probably Rolf in this scenario.”

He sets Louis down gently, and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his black hoodie. Louis narrows his eyes.

“I resent that,” he informs Harry. “I am not a seventeen-year-old Nazi. Also, my arse is nicer.”

“Touché.” Harry concedes, and it takes all of Louis’ willpower not to ask whether he’s talking about the Nazism or the arse.

“How old are you, anyway?”

“Twenty. You?”

“Twenty-two,” Louis replies, grumpily. “Damn it, I am Rolf.”

Harry laughs and runs his fingers through his fringe.

“So what now?”

“I dunno. Not as much to do in an abandoned airport as you’d think.”

“Hmm,” Harry considers this. “And I don’t much fancy taking a walk around the rolling fields of Knock in the middle of the night.”

Louis groans, draping himself across the seats, wincing as the partition digs into his back. Harry, meanwhile, sinks to the floor, putting his chin on his hands and his elbows on his crossed knees. He really is _very_ pretty, and Louis almost wishes he didn’t like him so much, or he’d suggest several creative ways to while away the six hours until their flight.

“Why’d they even build this all the way out here?” Louis motions vaguely at the ceiling above them. “It’s miles from anything useful. Took me about eight hundred years to get here from Galway.”

“Funnily enough, I actually know the answer to that one,” Harry perks up, and Louis finds himself entertained for a short while by Harry’s poorly-related account of the airport’s history — something about Knock being a pilgrimage site and an overly-optimistic priest who knew a business venture when he saw one — but he’s really just watching the way Harry’s eyes sparkle and hands move while he speaks in his slow, deep voice. It’s disconcerting, how quickly this boy has got under his skin.

“You’ve been revising,” Louis comments when Harry stops speaking.

“Bitesize,” he replies flippantly, and suddenly stretches out his limbs and rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “’S getting chilly in here.”

“You’re lying on the cold tiles in the middle of the open floor.”

“What are you, a physicist?”

“I’m a bartender,” Louis replies absently, carefully extricating his limbs from the armrests and dips of the bench. Harry holds his hands out imploringly once he’s upright, and Louis hoists him up bodily; he’s deceptively heavy, is Harry.

“And you say the Irish have no reason to like you,” Harry teases, hip checking him gently as they make their way back over to their bags. Louis snorts, reaching down to pick up his phone; there’s one message from his mum telling him not to worry about being late, and one from Zayn — who is apparently drunk off his arse in London — containing a picture of Liam’s nose and nothing else. Louis must make a distasteful noise, because a second later, he has Harry’s chin resting on his shoulder, peering down at the screen.

“I’m not much of a nose fan either. They smell,” he comments idly, and Louis is caught between being very affected by the way Harry’s chest is plastered to his back, and being horrified by the terrible joke.

“Harold.”

“Not sorry.”

If he notices Louis leaning into him ever-so-slightly, he doesn’t comment on it as he moves away. Louis locks his phone and turns to face him.

“You know,” he mock admonishes, “It’s rude to look at strangers’ phones over their shoulder.”

“Ow,” Harry clutches at his heart dramatically, though it’s with a pang that Louis notices a brief flash of genuine hurt in his expression. “After all we’ve been through, Lou? I’m wounded.”

“You don’t even know my last name!”

Harry fixes him with a serious, probing look that has Louis crossing his arms across his body without even thinking about it.

“Maybe not. But I know you love your family so much your whole face lights up when you mention them. You’re shit at Gaelic and you’re more sarcastic than anyone I’ve ever known. But I know you like sad movies, too, so it’s probably all bark and no bite. You didn’t yell at that lady at the desk downstairs so you’re nicer than about eighty percent of the population. You like musicals and you’re willing to dance like a lunatic with someone you just met, which I think says more about you than a name. Your move.”

“You’re awfully observant,” Louis’ voice is raspy in his ears, and Harry shrugs, suddenly seemingly incapable of meeting his eyes. And for a moment, just a moment, Louis imagines that he’s not the only attracted person in the room.

“I’m a musician. Sensitive artist type. It’s in the job description,” Harry replies nonchalantly. Louis titters weakly, and they fall into a tense silence that Louis just _ha_ s to break.

“Tomlinson.”

“Sorry?”

“My last name,” Louis lifts his gaze to Harry, who looks flummoxed. “It’s Tomlinson.”

He’s glad he’s watching, because the way Harry’s beatific grin slowly blooms and spreads across his face is a sight to behold; he wants to see it again and again and again. He wants to be the _reason_ for it again and again and again.

“Styles,” he clears his throat. “That’s mine.”

“Harry Styles? God, as if you’re not going to be a famous musician with a name like that!”

“I don’t think labels generally sign on a name basis,” Harry says slowly, but he’s smiling again, which is all that matters, really.

“Ah, Harold—“

“Harry.”

“— _Harold_ , that’s where you’re wrong. I happen to know a great many insiders in the music-making-big industry, and they have all imparted their secrets to yours truly,” Louis replies sagely, desperate to get another laugh out of Harry. It works.

“Damn, all that time I wasted writing songs,” Harry slaps his knee, “Shame.”

“Was that _sarcasm_ I detect, dear?”

“Not at all.”

“Again! I’m clearly a bad influence on you.”

All he gets in reply is a massive yawn that he soon replicates; it’s getting properly late now, well after one o’clock, and though the prospect of staying up all night seemed feasible three hours ago, Louis can feel his eyes burning with want of sleep. Coach journeys always take it out of him, and he’d worked until three o’clock the previous morning.

“Fancy a nap?” Harry asks sleepily, unzipping his bag and producing a khaki parka that he spreads over himself like a blanket. Louis tuts, reaching into his rucky to find his wool-lined denim cardigan, a little big for him but perfect for sleeping under. He doesn’t curl up there against the wall though, getting slowly to his feet and picking up his bag. Harry looks up at him from under his newly pulled-up hood, puzzled.

“Where’re y’going?”

“It’s too cold over here. Be warmer between the vending machines.”

Harry grumbles, but nonetheless, in a few moments he’s standing too, bag slung over his shoulder.

“How d’you know so much about it?”

“One too many missed coaches and nights spent in stations, young Harold,” Louis pinches one of Harry’s sleeves between a thumb and forefinger and leads him to the corner behind the crisp machine, and it’s a testament to how tired he is that Harry doesn’t protest the name. They make a comfortable sort of nest, though the motor of the machine doesn’t warm the air as much as Louis had assumed it would. It’s as cosy as it’s going to get, and they manage to get in a comfortable position at right-angles to one another, using their bags as pillows and jackets as blankets.

“Just a couple of hours,” Harry yawns, already sounds half-asleep. “Don’t wanna waste…” his voice peters out, and Louis opens one eye to look at him, to ask what he doesn’t want to waste. Harry’s already asleep.

Louis sets an alarm on his phone for half past four, and before he knows it, he’s out too.

 

✈ ♣ ✈ ♣ ✈

 

He’s dreaming of Dublin. He’s sitting on the north bank of the Liffey in summer, watching kids jump in with joyous shrieks and people lazing in the sun eating hot chips. He only spent a year there, but it was long enough for Ireland to get under his skin and make him want to stay. Right now, though, he wants to move. A seagull is pecking dully at his calf, and though he keeps swatting at it, it keeps going, like a woodpecker.

“Stop it!” he insists, swatting more insistently, never making contact, and it doesn’t even seem to flinch. He kicks out, and this time, he hits something solid. The bird gives a very human yelp of pain.

He wakes up suddenly, the fluorescent lights harsh against his eyes. Across, Harry is giving him an accusing glare from underneath his hood, but more pressing is the matter that he’s shivering from head to toe; his leg against Louis’ is trembling at the same frequency of the gull’s pecking. Oh.

“Sorry. Cold?” Louis asks, voice raw from sleep.

“Bit,” Harry replies in a weak voice, teeth chattering, “Bloody Knock.”

“Bloody Knock,” Louis agrees, and shifts so that he’s sitting up. He prods Harry until he does the same, and takes his jacket and spreads it out on the floor.

“What’re you doing?” Harry slurs, voice still thick with fatigue. Louis pulls a couple of shirts from his bag, laying them out, too.

“You’re losing all of your body heat to the ground,” he explains, hoisting his bag so that it’s now next to Harry’s. “You’ll be a lot warmer if you sleep with something between. Also, if we’re next to one another.”

Harry’s eyes widen, and Louis is seized by the sudden urge to grab his bag and run to the opposite end of the airport at the panic on his face.

“I won’t, you know, try anything… God, sorry, I didn’t think it’d be uncomfortable, I just, you know, it’s science and maybe I just watch too much Man vs. Wild or something—“

“Louis, stop,” Harry grabs his wildly flailing forearm, “I trust you, I’m just really tired and my brain’s not working properly.”

Louis nods, though he can feel the flush in his cheeks still. It’s with some awkwardness that they arrange themselves so that they’re lying parallel under a pile of Harry’s jackets and shirts, close but carefully not touching.

“Goodnight Harry.”

“G’night, Lou,” there’s a brief silence before Harry adds, “And for the record, your survival knowledge is wildly impressive.”

Louis grins into the canvas of his rucksack.

“Thanks.”

He resets his alarm for an hour before their flight, and is forced to re-evaluate everything he ever thought was true about himself when he wakes up _happy_ to the sound of Marimba at five in the morning. But then again, other times he’s had to wake up at ungodly hours, he hasn’t been wrapped around a very warm Harry Styles, both of whose arms are locked around his waist. He lets himself savour the moment, breathing in Harry’s scent before attempting to extricate himself from his grip.

“Nnmph,” Harry grumbles, arms tightening seemingly automatically around Louis, and Louis burrows into the fabric of his hoodie, just for a moment. It’s self-indulgent, but he reasons that he has another two hours left in this boy’s presence before they conceivably walk out of each other’s lives forever. He’ll take what he can get, while things are still uncertain.

“Haz,” Louis nudges him in the ribs, “We’ve got a plane to catch.”

His eyes blink open, and for a moment, they focus on Louis, and Harry’s face breaks into a lazy grin. Louis’ heart jumps into his throat at the sight, and at the realisation that this is something he could definitely, _definitely_ get used to. After a few seconds, though, Harry’s body tenses and expression drops, his arms retracting from around Louis’ body at lightning speed.

“Shit! Sorry I must have—“

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Louis cuts him off before he can get too distressed. That, and shatter the illusion Louis had built up in the past few seconds. “Honestly, you’re very comfy. And warm.”

Harry smiles weakly, and Louis feels it like a stab in the gut; maybe not so reciprocated after all. He steels himself the way he knows how, from all the other times he’s had to close himself off and shut his feelings away. Not that he has _feelings_ for Harry; he doesn’t know him well enough, but the _possibility_ had been addictive even for those few hours.

That’s what he tells himself.

“Come on,” he says briskly, gathering up his things and shoving them into his rucksack with a little more force than strictly necessary. “I don’t want to get stuck at security.”

“Not smuggling anything, are you?” Harry teases lightly, and Louis can only muster a weak half-smile.

“Nah. Chucked my explosives out before I left. Hungry? Sounds like the café’s reopened.”

“Too early for breakfast, really.”

“Yeah.”

They make their way down to security in relative silence; neither of them have to check-in any luggage, despite Ryanair’s punishing restrictions on cabin baggage, and after paying the €10 “Airport Development Fee” (“bollocks to this” Louis grumbles as he forks it over, and Harry snorts in earnest this time) they join the queue for the single conveyor belt and security gate that Knock has. They both pass through without any issue, Harry even going so far as to make conversation with the guard, who looks decidedly exhausted and not at all in the mood to chat. Beyond that is an extensive gift shop, and on the right, rows of seats and two doors leading out onto the tarmac.

“D’you think my mum would like this?” Louis turns to Harry, holding a shot glass that reads “BUGGER OFF” in bold orange, white and green letters.

“I got mine one, and she loves it,” Harry deadpans, and Louis lets out a surprised bark of laughter as he puts the glass back. The souvenirs are all grossly overpriced and, truth be told, ugly as sin, but it’s still forty minutes to their flight, and it beats sitting in awkward silence while they wait to board.

“What about this? Does it suit me?” Harry picks out a white scarf covered in neon green shamrocks and — fuck, it doesn’t actually look terrible on him. Bastard.

“Brings out your eyes,” Louis comments idly, picking up a flat-top cap and perching it jauntily on his head. “Reckon the lads of Doncaster will be able to resist me in this number?”

Harry purses his lips as he carefully re-folds the scarf and places it back on the shelf.

“Not a chance. Mothers had better lock up their sons.”

“Thought as much.”

It’s stilted, nothing at all like the night before; Louis wonders if the spell has been broken by having other people around, that maybe it’s no longer necessary for them to stick together. And yet, despite the fact that he’s not making much conversation, Harry doesn’t leave his side.

It isn’t all that long before their flight is called — somewhat unnecessarily, as the next one doesn’t leave for two hours — and they’re shepherded through the doors.

“Where do you want to sit?” Harry calls over the roaring of the engines.

“Next to you,” Louis calls back, before mentally smacking himself in the forehead, realising Harry had meant which end of the plane, “Er, up the back. If we crash, I want to go out last.”

“Morbid fucker, you are,” Harry comments, but mercifully doesn’t tease him for the faux pas.

It’s overcast and windy, and the climb up the metal stairs to the back door seems to take forever. Once inside, though, they manage two vinyl-covered seats together, and Louis burrows into his jacket the second they sit down, closing his eyes against the harsh yellow interior of the plane.

“Bloody Ryanair,” he mumbles as more disgruntled-looking passengers shuffle through the doors.

“I can’t tell if they’re annoyed because of the delay, or because they’re on a budget airline at the crack of dawn,” Harry murmurs in Louis’ ear.

“Both, probably. Though none of them slept on a cold floor, so they have no right to complain.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Harry comments mildly, and Louis feels his lips twitch, remembering the feeling of Harry’s chest against his cheek.

“No. It wasn’t.”

The last thing he remembers clearly is the soporific quality of the flight attendant’s voice as she goes through the safety procedure before he feels himself drifting off again, not caring that his head lolls onto Harry’s shoulder… Maybe doing it a little bit on purpose. He’s only dozing really, semi-aware of the goings-on around him as the plane gains momentum and lifts off, the slight turbulence as they break through the cloud cover, the brightness filtering through the windows. He’s aware of other things too; Harry moving ever-so-carefully to put his headphones in so as to not jostle Louis, the faint vibration of his heartbeat, the resonation of his voice as he declines to buy anything off the trolley. He’s just awake enough that he feels all of it, but asleep enough that it flies by in what seems like a few minutes.

Louis dully feels the beginning of the descent, and a deep sadness blooms in his chest. The dull feeling turns into a jab as they finally touch down, but he’s only given a few seconds to wallow as he’s well and truly roused from his slumber by the sharp, loud sound of a bugle.

“ _The fu_ —?”

“WELCOME! YOU HAVE ARRIVED ON YET ANOTHER ON-TIME FLIGHT!”

“Oh, for fuck’s _sake_ …” Louis throws his head back against the seat as the intercom withers on, and Harry giggles.

“Not a morning person?”

“If I wanted to wake up to a fucking bugle I would have joined the fucking army, Haz.”

Harry looks unfazed by the hissed outburst, instead offering him a disgustingly bright smile.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’.”

It’s raining when it’s finally time to them to disembark, though the pair of them agree to wait for the pushy middle-aged couples and flustered mothers clutching the hands of grizzling children to go first before they exit the plane. Silently, Harry pulls both of their bags out of the overhead compartment while Louis shrugs his jacket on again, and by the time he’s made a point of doing up all of his buttons, they’re almost the last people left on the plane. He’s not dawdling on purpose. He’s not.

“Have a lovely day,” the attendant gives them both a forced sort of smile, and Louis snickers when Harry salutes him.

They breeze through passport control, and Louis notices Harry peering at the number of stamps in his. They’re not really that interesting, mainly from airports around the British Isles, but he doesn’t feel the need to expound when Harry’s looking vaguely impressed as it is.

“You get around, don’t you?” he comments, though it sounds like a compliment. Louis shrugs.

“I go where the work takes me.”

There’s no need to wait around at the baggage claim, and after a brief period of _where the fuck to now,_ they’re hopping on the travellator to the station.

“I love these things,” Harry sighs happily, leaning on the handrail. “When I was little, I used to run down them and pretend I was invisible.”

Louis regards him for a moment. Harry regards him right back, seemingly unruffled.

“I hope you buy your mum really good Christmas presents,” Louis replies. “Because you must have been the weirdest child.”

“Heeeeeeeey!”

They reach the station before Louis is really ready.

“Which train are you catching?” Louis asks, peering up at the departures board. His leaves in fifteen minutes or so, just enough time to buy a hot tea, and maybe a pasty for the journey. Harry shifts next to him.

“The twelve past eight,” he replies after a quick scan of the boards. “I’m guessing you’re on the seven forty-three?”

“Yeah,” Louis clears his throat, realising that his minutes with Harry are now punishingly numbered. He wants to ask for a number, Facebook, anything, but then he remembers the look Harry gave him when he woke up in his arms, and his tongue turns to cotton in his mouth.

“You should get a move on,” Harry says suddenly. “Unless you’ve already picked up your tickets?”

Louis digs into his pocket and pulls out the orange rectangle between his fore- and middle fingers.

“Do you think I’m made of money, Styles? If I could afford to buy tickets on the day-of, I’d probably have a chauffeur.”

Harry makes a noise of assent, and they make their way over to the Pumpkin Café. Louis gets a weak tea for his trouble, and a lukewarm Cornish pasty that he squirrels into his rucksack. Harry, meanwhile, gets the most disgusting, hot chocolatey concoction on the menu (complete with miniature marshmallows because he is a child) and a brownie.

“How are you that skinny?” Louis asks indignantly, mindlessly pinching Harry’s hip. Harry grins smugly, a blob of whipped cream on his nose. They’re sitting on Louis’ platform, mostly devoid of life and mercifully quiet after the noise of the plane and airport.

“Genetics. And lots of running away from hordes of fans who want to marry me.”

“Funny, I—“ Louis’ replying quip dies in his throat as his train pulls in with a roar of engines. He turns to Harry, who looks startled by the concept that train stations are sometimes frequented by trains, and watches as he sets his cup down on the floor by his feet.

“Oh,” he murmurs as the doors swing open and a few passengers alight; Louis stands, hoisting his rucky over one shoulder.

“Well, I guess—“

“Do you want to meet up sometime?” Harry interrupts, speaking faster than Louis has ever heard him. “Just for, I dunno, coffee or something? Say, next weekend?”

Louis bites his lip. He wants to say yes. He really, _really_ wants to say yes, almost more than he’s ever wanted anything. But then he remembers that it’s Harry. Lovely, polite Harry who is probably just trying to spare Louis’ feelings, or worse still, genuinely wants to be just _friends_. And besides…

“I… can’t,” the words taste bitter on his tongue. “I’m working.”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up, and the sparkle in his eyes hardens.

“All weekend?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Right. Yeah, whatever. No worries,” Harry replies in a clipped little voice, stooping to pick up his hot chocolate and bag and turning on his heel with a stiff set to his shoulders. “See you around, Louis.”

The guard is blowing his whistle, but it sounds faint in Louis’ ears. He wants to run after Harry, ask him what the hell he wants. Or preferably, sink his fingers into that gorgeous hair and pull his face down so that Louis can kiss him over and over until he smiles again.

Instead, he gets on the train, and when it finally pulls away from the station, he doesn’t search for Harry’s parka among the bodies milling about on the platform.

He doesn’t.

 

✈ ♣ ✈ ♣ ✈

 


	2. Galway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Fluff. More fluff than a tumble dryer that hasn't been cleaned in three years. THAT much fluff. You have been warned.
> 
> (I was going to wait a couple of days to upload this chapter but, what the hell, it's ready and I'm an impatient bastard)

✈ ♣ ✈ ♣ ✈

 

“It’s today! Harry, _get the fuck up,_ it’s today!”

Harry blinks one eye open, and is met with the sight of an empty hostel room and a manically-grinning Niall Horan. He pulls the covers back over his head without a word.

“Harry!”

“Five minutes,” he insists, mouth full of too-thin pillow.

“Get your lazy arse up! It’s the _day of my people_ , Harry!” Niall insists, now clambering on top of Harry and jabbing at him through the duvet. He is nothing, if not persistent.

“You just wanna get pissed before midday.”

“Like I said; it’s the day of my people. Besides, I’m not letting you lie here all day and mope about Airport Boy.”

Harry finally emerges from the covers, if only just to glare at Niall. It’s been a week since he was stranded in Knock Airport with Louis, and a week since the most humiliating rejection of his life. Not that he blames him, really; Harry always came on too strong, and he supposes that his behaviour around Louis that night had really taken the cake. He winces now, just thinking about it.

“That was a low blow,” Harry informs him, and Niall shrugs.

“Get up, shower, get dressed. I hope you brought something green.”

It’s a testament to the sheer power of Niall’s infectious enthusiasm for literally everything that Harry finds himself in the kitchen of the Kinlay Hostel, grabbing a couple of scones and pieces of fruit, and squeezing onto the end of a table opposite Niall.

“The parade’s at nine,” Niall tells him through a mouthful of toast, “Then it’s just a free-for-all.”

“How many people d’you think are drunk already?” Harry wonders, looking round; everyone is clad in orange and green, for the most part. They’re sharing a table with two girls around their age who Harry recognises from the pub crawl last night; despite the fact that they’re wearing cheery shamrock-themed headgear, they both look a little worse for wear. Harry empathises.

“Oh, I reckon about thirty percent of the population. It’s only just after eight, though.”

“Bless this country.”

After breakfast, they head out into the drizzle, skirting the edge of Eyre Square and meandering down Shop Street, stopping at The Galway Roast to pick up hot chocolates. One of the many reasons Harry likes Niall is that they have the same sweet tooth, and there is no judgment in the sacred bonds of their friendship when both of them order embarrassingly-topped drinks. They manage to snag a perfect spot where the street forks, leaning right against the barrier separating the crowds from the parade route. It’s raining in earnest now, and most people have umbrellas. Harry turns to Niall, pushing the hood of his parka out of the way.

“Will the parade still go on in this weather?”

Niall gives him a pitying look.

“Harry. Come on.”

And that’s all the answer he gets for a while. The crowd thickens, pressing the two of them into the metal barrier, and Harry is getting worried. The deluge isn’t letting up, and most of the drinking in Galway is done outdoors, or so Niall tells him. The pubs all open out onto pedestrian streets in this part of the city, and generally nobody cares if you take a pint down to the Quay; as it is, Harry just wants to jump into a hot shower and curl up in his bunk for the day.

But just as he’s about to voice this to Niall, two men toting guitars step out into the street, directly in the parade route.

“Right!” one of them roars over the sound of the rain, “Let’s see if we can’t do something about this shite!”

The crowd makes scattered noises of approval, but Niall cheers and jumps. They start playing a harsh, rapid tune that Harry has never heard before, shouting the Irish Gaelic lyrics too fast from him to understand and slowly making their way up the street. Harry is confused, but after a moment, he notices that the rain has reduced to a sprinkle. To his utter disbelief, the rain thins and thins, and by the end of the song, the crowd is cheering with a fervour to match Niall’s, and the sun is slanting toward the wet pavement.

Harry turns to Niall, utterly bewildered. Niall grins back feverishly.

“Fecking _love_ this country!”

 

✈ ♣ ✈ ♣ ✈

 

The parade reminds Harry a little bit of the local fairs in Holmes Chapel; schoolchildren playing tin whistles, local organisations with ridiculous papier-mâché floats, war veterans marching with their medals… The only difference is that everything is incredibly green. It’s good fun, though, and the rain holds off for the entire time.

By eleven the parade has ended. The barriers are being moved aside, and the crowds are starting to funnel into the pubs all the way along the street, and Harry and Niall head to Tig Cóilí, just next door to their parade-viewing spot. Niall’s guitar is already there; he’s managed to get time slots playing trad at almost all of his favourite pubs in the city, and Tig is his 11 to 1 o’clock shift. Taking his place under the front window and chatting animatedly with the fiddler who sits on his left, he wastes no time sending Harry to fetch him a pint.

“Of what?”

Niall’s withering glare doesn’t come out very often, but he makes an exception to that. Harry laughs, clapping him on the shoulder and joining the throng waiting to be served. It’s no so much a queue as a desperate crush of thirsty bodies, really.

He’s got his head down, sorting his money and readying his explanation that Niall’s drink should come free, when a horribly familiar voice says to the top of his head, “What can I get you?”

His neck almost hurts with the speed at which it snaps up, and then he’s face-to-face with Louis.

It shouldn’t be so disarming; he’s wearing a green shirt and a green top hat and he already has something spilled down his front… But his eyes are so, so blue, and wide and his mouth is hanging open but it’s as inviting as ever and—

“Oi, mate! Are you going to order anything?” Harry feels an insistent nudge from behind him and he swallows, steels, and keeps his voice devoid of emotion and recognition.

“Yeah. Two pints of Guinness. One goes free, my friend’s playing down the front.”

“Got it,” Louis says after a pause, and reaches under the bar for two clean glasses. It takes a while to pour a perfect pint of Guinness, and normally Harry would make conversation while he waited. But normally, he hadn’t been humiliatingly rejected by the person pouring it, so.

“Four twenty.”

Harry hands over a five euro note and tells him not to worry about the change. It’s with some difficulty that he pushes through the crowd without spilling either pint all over anyone, but he eventually collapses next to Niall, who whoops and takes a hearty sip.

“He’s behind the bar,” Harry eventually says in Niall’s ear. Niall frowns.

“Who?”

“Louis.”

Niall’s eyes widen.

“The fuck he doing here? Thought you said he was from Doncaster!”

“He is! Or… Was. I don’t know that much about him,” Harry wrings his hands, “But he’s working here and I think that might have been the most awkward bar experience of my life, which, as you know, is an achievement.” He holds his glass up to eye-level “This pint is tainted.”

“The solution is to drink it, mate.”

And so he does. And for a couple of hours, he forgets about Louis; he listens to Niall play trad with people he’s never met, belting out songs everyone knows in his clear voice and grinning when everyone cheers and applauds. Harry picks up a tambourine at one point, and it’s just _fun_. Everyone is happy and tipsy and it’s still sunny outside and the music is good and so very, very Irish.

And then he sees Louis at the door, now in his faded denim jacket, watching them. God knows how long he’s been there, but when he clocks that Harry has spotted him, he ducks his head and slips out.

Harry isn’t sure what gets into him; it could be the Guinness and the following cider, it could be the upbeat rendition of the Boondock Saints theme that Niall, the fiddler, the flutist and numerous impromptu percussionists are muddling through, it could just be the shock of seeing Louis and wondering about fate, but Harry mouths an excuse to Niall and darts out of the door, jostling people as he goes.

Louis’ already a fair way down Mainguard Street by the time Harry spots him, almost at the bridge, and so Harry takes off, dodging revellers as he goes.

“Louis! _Louis!_ Wait!”

Louis freezes, turning slowly just as the street intersects the path that runs along the River Corrib. His face remains expressionless as Harry finally catches up.

“What, you’re just going to ignore me?” Harry pants, sweeping his fringe out of his face. He lets the irritation take over, having to raise his voice a little over the roaring waters of the river. Louis looks thunderstruck at the words, but Harry barrels on.

“You know, just because you didn’t want to go out with me doesn’t mean you have to treat me like I’m a stranger! I don’t have an… I don’t know, an agenda, or anything.”

“I’m sorry?” Louis looks confused now. Harry sighs, frustrated.

“Look, I get it. I was too forward, and then there was the… Whatever. In Knock. And Manchester. But—”

“What do you mean, ‘too forward’?” Louis demands, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Harry, you didn’t even say goodbye, so if you’re just making fun—“

“What? No! I’m— You’re not— You _rejected_ me, Louis!”

And there it is. Louis’ eyebrows draw together at that, but the fight seems to go out of him.

“I… Didn’t?”

Harry laughs, and it sounds hollow even to himself.

“Pretty sure you did. You really expect me to have believed that you were…” and then it clicks. “Oh.”

“I said I was working all weekend. Because I am a bartender in Ireland, and this weekend is the 17th of March,” Louis says slowly, looking faintly amused. “I wasn’t joking about the flat downtown. I live here.”

“Oh,” Harry feels winded and off-kilter. Louis, meanwhile, has taken to inspecting the toes of his shoes with determination.

“I would have suggested an alternative, but I… Well, I thought you were just humouring me.”

“You what?”

“Well, I mean, your face when we woke up, and then you like, wouldn’t talk to me—“

“— I was embarrassed! Especially since I woke up with a hard-on, and—“

“You _what now?_ ” Louis’ head snaps up, and eyes are practically bugging out of his head, but the end of the sentence curls up in… Delight?

“I thought you, um, noticed. And that’s why you suddenly backed off.”

“No, I did _not_ notice!”

“Right. Well, ah, sorry. Belated apologies, etcetera.”

Louis is biting his top lip in what looks like— what Harry _hopes_ is — a restrained smile.

“We really got this wrong, didn’t we?” Louis finally says, and Harry huffs a wry laugh and looks at his boots, scuffing them against the concrete.

“Yeah. Idiots.”

When Harry looks up again, Louis has moved closer, and is holding out a hand. Harry takes it uncertainly, and Louis shakes it. His eyes are warm and inviting and he doesn’t look like the boy who left him feeling like shit at the train station, but like the one who stumbled into his life whistling a fake Irish folk song in an empty airport.

“Hi, Harry. I’m Louis. I don’t know you very well, but I think I like you. Would you like to spend the day with me?”

Harry feels a grin — the sort of grin that makes his cheeks ache — spread across his face.

“And what would that entail?”

“Well, first,” Louis says, matter-of-factly, stepping even closer, “This.”

And then his fist is bunching Harry’s collar and he’s rising on his tiptoes to press his lips to Harry’s. His mouth is warm, and tastes like something sweet that Harry can’t quite identify; he wants to taste with his tongue, but for now settles with running it along the seam of Louis’ bottom lip, and is rewarded with a sigh that sounds a little like relief. And maybe he’s trying to make amends for making Harry think that he was being rejected rather than spared, but, hell, it’s working.

“Okay. I’m listening,” Harry says breathlessly when they finally break apart. Louis chuckles, eyes shining

“Well,” he doesn’t move back, speaking in a voice so quiet Harry has to strain to hear him, “First, we get drunk,” he punctuates the point with a peck on the lips, “In every good pub in this city. Then, we buy ourselves some fish and chips for dinner,” another kiss, “And smuggle a couple of pints down to the Quay.” And another, “Then maybe a stroll down the Long Walk.” And another, a little more insistent than the others, “And then maybe, if the rain comes down, I’ll ask you up to my flat downtown.”

An involuntary shiver runs through Harry’s body as Louis steps back with a devilish grin.

“That’s a lyric.”

“It is. But is that a yes?”

Maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing gently in his veins, maybe its the mingling sounds of trad players in every pub around, or maybe it’s just the way Louis looks in the early afternoon light, hopeful and nervous and happy, but Harry can’t imagine a universe where he’d ever, ever say ‘no’.

 

✈ ♣ ✈ ♣ ✈

 

“Right!” Louis crows over the lip of his third pint of cider. “So, your friend—“

“Niall.”

“Niall! Very Irish name. Anyway, what was I saying?”

“My friend Niall,” Harry prompts, only dimly aware that he’s gazing at Louis like an idiot. It’s not his fault. Louis is cute when he’s tipsy. And Harry is tipsy and Louis thinks he’s cute too. It’s all tipsy and cute. St. Patrick’s Day is the _best_.

“Yes! He’s playing the Róisín Dubh now, then the King’s Head, then…”

“… A break, then he’s playing late at Taaffes,” Harry finishes, proud he’s remembered it all.

“Right. So glad I worked last night and got this afternoon off. I love the Róisín Dubh. Why aren’t we at the Róisín Dubh now?”

“Because you said that the trad was good here.”

They’re at a little pub just off Eyre Square called An Pucan, which is as crowded as any of the pubs in the Quay Street area. The trad _is_ good, the drinks are fairly cheap, and there’s a strangely high concentration of Australian tourists singing along to the choruses. Harry likes it. But he likes Louis more. He likes Louis a lot. More with every passing minute.

“So I did,” Louis upends his glass, and sculls the rest of his drink easily; Harry tries very hard to not get carried away watching the muscles of his throat work. He vaguely wonders what it would feel like to have his—

“Come on, Harold, time is wasting!”

“‘M not called Harold,” Harry counters, but nevertheless drains his own glass. Once he’s done, he plucks Louis’ empty one from his hands and places both carefully on the bar. The barman (who, at this point, is already looking a little worse for wear) gives him a feeble wave of thanks, before Harry is tugged by the hand out onto the street. The cool March air clears his head a little, the tipsy haze fading minutely the farther away from An Pucan they walk.

It’s a bit of a way to the Róisín Dubh, but the celebrations still going on all around make it in interesting walk. There are people dressed up in elaborate costumes, street performers dancing and singing and all things in between, even…

“Face painting! Come on, Lou, it’ll be fun — it’s only three euros!”

“You can feel free. I’ll watch and take photos for you to look at when you’re sober.”

“Psssht. I’m disappointed,” Harry declares, forking over a few coins and sitting down in front of the chuckling girl who had been listening in to their bickering; he chats to her while she works, almost messing up the orange, white and green swirls that she sweeps around his eyes and down one cheek. She holds up a mirror at the end, and he beams into it; he thinks he looks pretty good. There’s even glitter.

“Thank you, Rachel!” he crows, smacking a kiss to her cheek and earning a reluctant giggle from her, and a narrow-eyed look from Louis.

“Actually, I think I will get my face painted,” Louis states suddenly, digging into his pocket for three euros and popping them into Rachel’s tin. He sits squarely in front of her and stares her down while she works, though she seems unfazed by his display, instead smiling slightly as she forms pretty patterns across his forehead and down the opposite cheek to Harry’s with the brush. When he sees himself, Louis admits he likes it, and pops an extra euro into the tin.

It isn’t until they’re crossing the bridge and Harry demands that they pose for a selfie with the Long Walk in the background that they realise. They both peer down at the photo for a quiet couple of moments, before Louis starts laughing uproariously — standing next to each other with their faces pressed together at the sides, the designs on their faces form a complete heart shape in paint and glitter.

“I think she’s my new hero,” Louis wipes his eyes, carefully so that the paint doesn’t smudge. “Did you ask her to do that?”

Harry shakes his head and takes the opportunity to press a kiss to Louis’ unpainted cheek. When he pulls back, Louis’ grin has relaxed into something far gentler, but no less happy.

“What was that for?”

Harry shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Felt like it. Could. Did.”

✈ ♣ ✈ ♣ ✈

 

Niall is playing up a storm at The Róisín Dubh when they arrive, the makeshift band leading the whole pub in a uproarious rendition of ‘The Belle of Belfast City’. Harry and Louis opt to share a Guinness, leaning on the stage and singing along as best they can, muddling up the verses spectacularly.

“Oi! Who’s this then?” Niall calls over the ruckus once the song ends, squatting to take a sip from his cider. The colour in his cheeks is high, but he seems as coordinated as ever. “Are you Airport Boy?”

Harry feels his face flush as Louis turns to stare at him.

“‘Airport Boy’?”

“His name, not mine!” Harry replies, pointing at Niall accusingly. Niall laughs and shakes Louis’ hand.

“Y’know,” Niall leans close to Louis’ ear, though Harry can still hear him clearly, “He’s been proper miserable all week. Nice to see you’ve got him smiling again.”

“ _Okay_ , Niall, back to work,” Harry says loudly, gently prodding Niall backwards so that he tips over onto his arse. A few onlookers laugh, and Niall gives them the finger, but he’s grinning. After a quick discussion with the other musicians, they play the opening chords of ‘The Fields of Athenry’, and Harry feels an arm wrap around his middle from behind, a high tenor voice humming the melody in his ear. He leans against Louis, and vaguely thinks that St. Patrick’s Day is the best holiday in the world. Again.

“Sorry for making you miserable,” Louis murmurs in his ear when the song ends, and Harry runs the fingers of his free hand along Louis’ forearm, still securely draped across his stomach.

“I think I’m at least partially to blame,” he replies lightly, “And besides. You’re making me happy now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They leave Niall to finish his set — if one can call a series hastily agreed-upon, quasi-improvised songs played with a bunch of strangers a “set”, but that’s the beauty of trad, Harry supposes — and make their way back up High Street to pick up some fish and chips.

“Best in the country, this place,” Louis claims. “I’ll get them, you pick up some beer or something from the off-license. I’ll meet you out the front, and we’ll walk down to the Spanish Arch, okay?”

“Okay,” Harry replies, and pecks Louis on the lips once, and it feels strangely familiar and domestic. Pleasantly so.

The off-license is poky, and full of tourists with similar ideas. Harry buys two cans of Galway Hooker, and, struck by sudden genius, a small loaf of bread. When they’ve regrouped and found a spot by the water at the start of the Long Walk, Harry unpacks his booty; Louis makes a delighted noise at the sight of the Hooker.

“I hate beer, but I love this stuff. It’s weird,” he muses, cracking it open with a satisfying ‘ _tsssss_ ’. “Can’t get it anywhere else, unfortunately.”

“I’ve never tried it, I just thought, you know, when in Rome and all that,” Harry gestures vaguely at their surroundings. The late afternoon sun is reflecting off the water, almost punishingly bright, and the music from the pubs mingles all together and travels across the surface of the river mouth, almost drowning out the laughter and chatter from the throng of people hanging around the Spanish Arch. Seabirds bob on the gentle waves and pester people for scraps, calling in different keys and taking flight against the clear, blue sky. It’s a beautiful place.

“What’s that for?”

Louis has noticed the loaf of bread. Harry picks it up and removes the plastic toggle with a grin.

“Chip butties!”

Louis stares at him with an unfathomable expression for a moment, before angling his head to the sky and shaking his head.

“Marry me.”

“Take me out to dinner first,” Harry replies, stealing a chip from Louis’ lap and popping it into his mouth. It’s a bit too hot, but after the amount of alcohol he’s imbibed today, it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Louis gestures at the wrapped newspaper in his lap.

“What do you think this is?”

“Fair point. Now, pass the chips, I’m starving.”

They eat in comfortable silence, stealing each other’s food unnecessarily and listening in to the conversations around them, conducted in an array of languages and accents.

“I’ll be honest,” Harry finally says, patting his stomach, “I didn’t just buy the bread for butties.”

“No?”

“Nope,” he reaches into the bag — still half a loaf left — and tears up a slice, throwing a bit out to the gulls that clamour and screech when they realise that they’re being fed. Louis follows suit with a chuckle. They continue that way until the bag is empty, selecting their favourites and seeing how good they are at catching pieces in midair. It’s a silly game, but it’s fun.

“You know,” Louis says at one point, the late sun illuminating him all in gold, apart from the two points of blue that are his eyes, “Most people think feeding birds is a bit naff.”

“I’m not most people,”

“I’m seeing that.”

 

✈ ♣ ✈ ♣ ✈

 

They wander down the Long Walk, chasing their own, tall shadows. About halfway along, Louis slips his hand into Harry’s and they just continue along like it’s nothing out of the ordinary, passing the multicoloured houses along the Quay hand-in-hand and even Harry thinks it’s disgustingly romantic. But today doesn’t feel like real life, and tomorrow seems like an impossibility, and why shouldn’t he do this?

It doesn’t rain, like in the song. But Louis still makes good on his plans, and takes Harry up to his flat, which is just a few streets back from the water over a clothing shop aptly called ‘Garments’. It’s fairly small — a kitchen, a bedroom, a tiny bathroom and a sort of nook that Louis has squashed a beanbag and telly into — but it’s cosy and a purring cat weaves her way between Harry’s ankles when he stops at the entrance.

“I’d have tidied a bit if I’d been expecting company,” Louis shrugs, half-heartedly placing a couple of mugs in the sink and tossing the tea towel in after them. Harry sidles farther in, squeezing into the tiny space between the counter and the dining table with him. “But I’m afraid you took me by surprise.”

“You and me both,” Harry agrees quietly, before moving forwards and slotting his lips against Louis’. It’s unlike the other times; they had been languid, sometimes tentative, just exploring and learning each other. This is purposeful. Louis sighs into his mouth, opening up under him and running his hands over Harry’s back to clutch at the fabric of his jumper, and Harry brings a hand up to run along the line of Louis’ jaw, feeling the suggestion of stubble there. He tastes more bitter now, like hops and barley, and Harry kisses away the flavour until he finds one that is just Louis.

“If the table — weren’t such a — mess,” Louis mumbles into Harry’s lips, tugging him by the belt loops and pressing against him insistently, “I’d fuck you on it.”

“Shit,” Harry gasps as Louis’ mouth moves to his neck.

“Maybe next time,” he mumbles against the skin, and he must notice the excited, silent giggle that vibrates in Harry’s neck, because he draw back then to look him in the eye. “What?”

“Next time?” Harry says, a little breathlessly. Louis’ lips are shiny and flushed now, and his hair is a mess where Harry’s fingers ran through it, but in that moment he looks bashful, scratching the back of his head self-consciously.

“Well, yeah. If you want.”

“I want,” Harry assures him and bends to attach his mouth to the skin just under Louis’ ear. “I definitely want.”

“Oh, good,” Louis manages to sound almost casual, until he inhales sharply when Harry sucks a mark into the skin of his throat. “Fuck. Yes.”

“That’s more like it.”

They make their way into the bedroom, shedding clothing as they go; a shirt strewn over the bookshelf, a pair of jeans caught on the corner of the door, pants hanging off the lampshade next to Louis’ bed. The sun is setting, casting everything in oranges and golds and creating unique shadows as Louis takes his time opening Harry up; he’s intuitive, knowing when to slow down, when to spread his digits slightly, when to curl his fingers to make Harry keen and twist into the sheets. He sucks sweet bruises into Harry’s thighs the entire time,  grazing the skin with his teeth and lips while his fingers drag and all of it takes Harry utterly apart.

He’s a mess when Louis finally pushes into him, on some other, blissful plane of existence where nothing exists but the weight of Louis’ hips between his own, his harsh breath and curses and praises against Harry’s neck. It’s overwhelming, and they’re probably moving too fast, but as Louis punches soft ‘ _ah ah ah’_ s out of him, all he can think is ‘ _perfect, perfect, perfect’._ Harry gives as good as he gets, too;  doesn’t miss the way Louis doubles his efforts when Harry’s fingernails dig into his shoulders and thighs, the way he whimpers when Harry cants his hips up to meet him, the way he goes boneless when he comes with Harry’s name on on his lips like a prayer, and that’s all it takes to tip Harry over the edge too and he finishes with a deep sigh.

Louis rolls off, disposing of the condom quickly, and then they’re both on their backs, staring up at the ceiling, nothing but the faint sound of music and their own harsh breathing filling the space. There’s a crack in it shaped like a lightning bolt.

“Well,” Louis finally rasps from Harry’s left, sounding slightly mystified, “Fuck me.”

“Give me a minute, jeez,” Harry huffs back and Louis laughs, high and giddy, and finally rolls over half onto Harry’s chest to kiss him. It’s like the kiss by the river again, albeit sweater and stickier and they’re both out of breath and giggly. So maybe nothing like the kiss my the river. Maybe better.

They stay like that a while, until the light is dusky and Louis pulls Harry out of bed and into the shower. Harry’s hands go wandering, but Louis swats them away.

“If you start that again, we’re going to miss the whole evening,” he reasons, though Harry is distracted by the rivulets running across his skin and clumping his long eyelashes together. His face paint melted off considerably somewhere in the past hour, and the last remnants are swirling down his body in multicoloured trails and swirling down the plug hole. Harry’s sad to see it go, really. “We’re going to Taaffes to watch your poor, neglected friend play some lovely Irish drinking songs to some lovely Irish drunk people.”

“Fine. Can we not talk about Niall while we’re naked, though, please?”

It’s still a good hour before Niall’s due at Taaffes when they finally leave Louis’ flat, so they go for a wander to Eyre Square, damp-haired and ever-so-slightly wobbly-legged. They drop in at the Skeff (“usually a bit rough for my taste but it’s okay tonight” Louis explains), knocking back a Baby Guinness shot each before being dragged into a violent embrace by a pair of green velvet-clad arms.

“What the—?”

“ _Lads!_  What's the craic? I knew I’d find you somewhere!” Niall’s voice crows into Harry’s ear. He sounds properly drunk, which is a feat for Niall. “Listen, I made friends!”

Harry turns around and bites down on his bottom lip very hard to avoid bursting into hysterical laughter. Niall, for some reason, is wearing a long, green velvet gown and a thick, auburn wig done up in a thick braid that reaches the base of his spine, but he’s looking at Harry like there’s nothing at all unusual about his appearance. Louis splutters.

“Why are you dressed as Princess Fiona?” he asks, and Harry realises a) why the costume seems so familiar and b) that he might just be a little bit in love with Louis for recognising a Shrek costume without any hint of embarrassment.

“See, my mate Mark—“

“— You don’t have a mate named Mark.”

“I do now. It’s his stag do! On St. Paddy’s! Wild, right?”

“Yeah. But that doesn’t explain why you’re dressed as Princess Fiona.”

“Keep up, Harry. All of his groomsmen are dressed as Fiona, and he’s dressed as a bride! Isn’t that _brilliant_? They had a horse and carriage and everything!”

“… You’re one of his groomsmen now?” Harry says slowly, already imagining himself getting hold of this Mark’s fiancée and explaining that her wedding is being hijacked by one Niall Horan.

“Of course not!” Niall replies as though Harry’s said something incredibly thick. “It’s just that Nathan had to go home and write a poem, or feed a pony or something. Irrevelant,” he frowns, and tries again. “Irrelevant. So now I’m Fiona, but I can’t be Fiona at Taaffes. Have to be Niall at Taaffes.” He heaves a sad sigh. “We could have done a duet, me and Fiona.”

Harry glances over at Louis, who is biting down on his knuckles hard, eyes sparkling with tears of suppressed laughter.

“It’s alright, Niall. Maybe next year.”

Niall brightens at this, and realising that he only has half an hour before he’s supposed to be on stage at Taaffes in his regular clothes, hurries off to find them. The two of them watch him go, utterly unconcerned with the strange stares he gets from the old men who look like regulars, huddled out the front of the pub.

“I like him,” Louis says earnestly, and Harry nods his agreement.

 

✈ ♣ ✈ ♣ ✈

 

Taaffes is utter mayhem when they finally arrive at half past nine. Niall’s part of the closing act, this time with a bunch of young, local lads he knows from some trad festival he went to in a town called Ennis last year. They’re good, and though the pub is utterly, uncomfortably jam-packed with people, it’s brilliant fun. Louis and Harry stand right in front of the stage, nursing a pint of Guinness each and doing their best to rev up the crowd for the upbeat numbers in terrible Irish accents that nobody notices are fake because everyone is off their faces and ridiculously happy.

“Feel weird to not be up there?” Louis asks him during a break late in the set, and Harry is confused for a moment.

“What?”

“You said you were a musician,” Louis shrugs, “I paid attention too, you know.”

A strange feeling floods Harry’s chest at the words.

“Yeah, it’s a bit weird. You’ll have to come to one of my gigs sometime. They’re only small, usually coffee shops and pubs, but—“

“I’d like that,” Louis cuts him off, “Should probably get back to England more often anyway. Even if it means flying bloody Ryanair.”

Harry laughs, and warmth pools in his belly because _yeah, this might just work._

“Alright!” Niall’s amplified voice fills the space again, “One last song from us!”

The crowd groans and boos, and someone down the back with a thick, Scottish accent yells “At least three more!” and everyone whoops, Niall included. He’s exchanged his guitar for what looks like a kind of banjo, and is idly pressing at the frets.

“Sorry, Angus or Jock or whatever your name is,” Niall shields his eyes and points at the speaker as a fresh wave of laughter ripples through the pub, “Strict orders. Anyway, here’s a song that isn’t even Irish, but we’re in bloody Galway and who gives a fuck if the locals hate it?”

He strums a bright series of chords that Harry recognises as the opening to ‘The Galway Girl’, and the crowd goes wild. He turns to face Louis with a shocked burst of laughter, and sees his grin mirrored in the face in front of him.

“Come on, we have to dance to this one, it’s our song!” Louis cries, seizing Harry by both hands and using his entire body to carve them out a spot on the dance floor, if one can call the tight, table-less area in front of the stage a dance floor. They sing along at the tops of their lungs with everyone else, and Harry winds his arms around Louis’ waist from behind him, swaying in time to the beat.

“… _What’s a fella to do,_

_If her hair was black, and her eyes were blue?”_

Harry kisses Louis’ hair.

“Two out of three will do.”

“Three?”

“Black hair, blue eyes, great bum,” Harry rattles off smoothly, and he feels Louis’ responding laughter more than he hears it.

“I don’t think that’s in the song, Harry,” he replies.

“It’s implied.”

“ _…On the day-i-ay-i-ay,_

_She asked me up to her flat downtown,_

_On a fine soft day-i-ay…”_

Louis reaches around to pinch Harry’s arse at that line, and Harry grins into the crook of his shoulder as Louis continues to belt out the chorus in his loud, high voice. Then the music lulls a little.

“ _When I woke up, I was all alone,_

_With a broken heart and a ticket home.”_

Louis turns around in Harry’s arms to kiss him and whisper in his ear.

“Not us.”

The song picks up again and Louis wriggles out of Harry’s grasp to join in the fake-Irish-dance battle happening in the center of the dance floor, pulling Harry along with him. His eyes are shining and he’s a bit sweaty from the sheer volume of bodies that have been pressing around them all night, but they keep on dancing and singing as Niall and the band repeat the chorus an extra time for good measure.

Harry doesn’t ever want the song to end.

 

✈ ♣ ✈ ♣ ✈

 

Harry wakes up carefully.

It’s the only word for it, really. Memories of Guinness and trad and a shitload of green, white and orange _everything_ slowly filter through his consciousness, and he braces himself for the inevitable hangover. He stretches, eyes still shut; the sheets feel soft and mercifully cool under his bare arms and chest, and he curls more tightly onto his side.

Then, a slightly smaller, but equally bare body drapes over his upper half. He blinks one eye open to look up at Louis, whose lips are pressed to the side of his face.

“Tea?” he asks softly, and Harry nods with a small smile. Louis kisses his ear happily, and extricates himself from the tangle of blankets they’ve cocooned themselves into and pads into the kitchen clad in a pair of boxer briefs he had definitely not been wearing when they’d gone to sleep the night before.

“Anniversaries are the best,” Harry declares, stretching out into the starfish position before relaxing his limbs again with a sigh. “Let’s do it every year.”

“I intend to,” Louis calls over the sound of the boiling kettle, “Even if just because I’ll never forget the date so long as we don’t move back to England, ever.”

“Sounds like a plan. I love Galway. Lots of pubs to drink at, lots of gigs to play, lots of cute boys to—”

“Oi!”

Harry giggles, and finally musters the willpower to roll out of bed and pull on a pair of Louis’ trackies; they’re a bit short and baggy on him, as always, but he likes it. He ambles out into the sunlit kitchen and places a smacking kiss on the back of Louis’ neck as he takes his tea.

“Thanks, love.”

“It’s why you keep me around,” Louis replies, pushing his glasses up his nose and flipping the newspaper to the crossword.

“Not true. I keep you around for the tea _and_ because you look fantastic in skinny jeans.”

“Valid point. Seven letters, Venetian canal boat?”

“‘Gondola’,” Harry peers over at the list of clues, like he does every morning. “And eight down is ‘Snowdonia’.”

“Get your own crossword,” Louis picks up the paper and glares at Harry from under his soft fringe, “Pest.”

“You love me,” Harry grins, resting his elbows on the table to prop his chin up on his palms and give Louis his best puppy eyes. Louis sets the paper down with a sigh, reaches over with the crossword pen still in hand, and draws what feels like a heart on Harry’s forehead.

“Weirdly enough, I do.”

 

✈ ♣ ✈ ♣ ✈

 

_… And I lost my heart to a Galway girl._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the pubs and songs mentioned in this fic are real, and if you have the opportunity and inclination, check them out. Also, Galway is a magical city.


End file.
